


Separation

by KissingSkating



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Character Death In Dream, Confessions, Heavy Angst, Hidden Feelings, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Sad Ending, Tragic Romance, Unhappy marriage, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:25:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9707717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissingSkating/pseuds/KissingSkating
Summary: It's been a few months since John's been wedded to Mary, but things are getting more complex as they find themselves having arguments frequently. One rainy night, having had enough, John ends up under the shed of a pub. He is tormented by recurring nightmares, causing emotional unbalance which can only be alleviated by thinking of the only person he can't speak his desires to. He goes in, only to find the world's only consulting detective already there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first AO3 post ~~holyshitthisisamazingifeelsonervous~~ and a great way to ruin your Valentine's Day by writing depressing things :D!  
>  I'm not an experienced writer, so be warned. And this is probably going to be out-of-character-ish, especially with John. I had a hard time figuring him out. I have nothing against Mary, by the way, I just happened to be listening to something sad that made my creative juices flow.

Separation

The rain dribbled down the inclined shed and soon, developed into a wild downpour. The Minis and the Land Rovers sped across the street, towards the intersection that was marked by four-ways and a traffic signal. The fog-engulfed city was quite a sight to the visiting tourists but to the locals, it was the mundane, ordinary. In-between the blankets of pristine white, the street lamps dimmed and flickered, showing signs of giving out-an effect of the rain or perhaps, slumber, like the rest of the city. No lights illuminated the windows of the residential buildings, indicating long hours of peaceful drowse of the city dwellers.

The second hand of the meticulously ornate clock tower moved, lethargically almost, across the surface, marking the flow of time, from its center point.

It circled once.

Twice.

Thrice.

John followed the second hard as clearly as he could, squinting occasionally through the mist, standing quietly under the neon lights of the pub’s signpost, below the shed’s protection. His arms were firmly pressed to his form, trying to preserve the warmth within his jacket.    

The second hand moved seven more times, gliding under the glass, in rotary fashion, moving past numbers that represented the many seconds which turned into minutes, minutes which turned into hours that John had spent outside the doors of the bar, lost in thoughts of Mary, which incited certain unwanted feelings inside of him.

Regret was probably one of them. Guilt, too.

But his mind flowed to that one thing that made his stomach clench and his palms sweaty. He felt the terrible remorse again as he remembered his wedding day.

No, he was no Sherlock. The man’s name made his heart stir in ways he couldn’t understand, yet his heart understood perfectly. He tried to move on and found himself not able to, despite feigning it. The more he tried to move farther away, the closer he got.

It was tormenting him, yet it was his only salvation.

He entered the pub that wet night after leaving home, having an intensely outraging argument with Mary, the woman whom he had exchanged vows with but couldn’t quite write her name across his heart. Another name had already been written there.

He sat on one of the unoccupied barstools at the very far corner, distant from the drunk swaying presences, his hands rubbing his throbbing temples. He shut his eyes, tightly and let out a tired, exasperated sigh. He knew the dejection and the depression all too well. It was coming back.

He ordered a drink, but the glass sat idly, not a sip taken from. He tried to clear his mind and momentarily, it worked. But to his dismay, his mind drifted through several flashbacks, just like always ever since John had been wedded.

And it was always Sherlock he thought of. Why, John understood not, but it immensely soothed him. God, he wanted the man-he needed him. But it was too late, wasn’t it?

He thought of the pool where they’d met Moriarty and the bomb that’d been strapped to him and days leading to Sherlock’s artificial death. The ghost of his fingers, still held a sort of temperature within his palm when they were running through the streets of London, hand in hand, making their directionless escape. A sudden surge of adrenaline conquered him. He reminisced about the death, which had torn his soul to pieces. It should’ve known his desires right then; shouldn’t have denied it and tried running from them. He knew better, yet-

He breathed heavily, clenching his fists. This was worse than Sherlock’s fake death. He was alive, yet he wasn’t with him. John could grieve, yet the tears didn’t come.

Everything was over.

His meetings with Sherlock were sparse, weeks after weeks would go by without meeting him. John’s insomnia was back. Mary complained about his mood often, but nobody noticed all the meals left untouched.

He couldn’t bring himself to go back to 221B Baker Street anymore, after Mrs.Hudson left. The place where all his old memories resided, felt desolate and empty, almost dead, just like his heart, whenever he passed by or back when he visited. Even his military trained demeanour wavered.

He inhaled sharply through his reddened nose, startled out of his thinking by a noise near one of the barstools.

“Mind moving, if ‘yer not gonna order anything?”

John only heard half the sentence, but shifted off the barstool, leaving his drink. He looked through the crowd to a distant seating area, away from the flashing colors, which seemed like an inviting place to sulk.

But suddenly, the insides of his chest gave an electrifying jolt, transfixing him on the spot. A pair of blue-gray irises were starring back; unblinking, unwavering.

John could recognize those eyes anywhere.

But him? In a pub?

For John? _Of course not._

He pushed his way through the drunk, irritated dancers towards the dark corner, awestruck. He began to wonder if it was an illusion, just like when he was seeing them after Sherlock’s death.

The eyes followed him, not batting an eyelash.

John approached the very embodiment of the man in his dreams, his daily thoughts, nightmares, what not.

“Any business here?” Sherlock voiced, averting his gaze from John, and glanced at something to distract him, lips pursed tightly. His disposition hardened, trying to keep calm as John stood inspecting him. He sure hadn’t expected John and it seemed he wasn’t expecting Sherlock here either.

John noticed how Sherlock’s complexion had become somewhat paler and how his eyes were bloodshot even though he’d turned his face. There were bruises too near his cheekbones. “You hurt yourself.” He said, shocked at Sherlock’s state.

“Yes. I obviously didn’t know that.” Sherlock answered, observing an overly-intimate couple farther away. It was a very clumsy mistake of him to leave scars displayed on his face, inviting unnecessary inquiries. Well, of course, no one would inquire. Except John.

_Go away, John. Go to Mary. Leave me alone._ He swallowed the words.

“Why did you hurt yourself, Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt a shiver as John pronounced his name. _This is not good._ “I asked you first.” Sherlock snapped.

John thought Sherlock asking him about his motive behind coming here late at night had been a rhetorical question. “We fought.” John said finally, trying to be nonchalant about the matter. “Mary and I.”

Sherlock turned to him, brows furrowed slightly.

_Couldn’t he tell?_

It was one of those moments when Sherlock would catch John in his gaze and he would find himself loosing equilibrium in the bottomless depths of blue and grey and he would look away, trying to snap out of the trance. But it was Sherlock who looked away this time, exhaling slowly as if he’d been holding his breath for too long. He stared down at his feet.

John tore his eyes off Sherlock, suddenly feeling unwanted. His heart pounded in his ears. The man who’d been on his mind and caged his heart in denial, all this time, was just in front of him. He wanted to scream in delight, almost. He wanted to grip Sherlock and bury his head into the vastness of his chest and warmth of his neck and maybe kiss him there, because Sherlock was taller.

“You’re here for a case?” John asked, trying to ease the silence.

“It’s a hobby of mine.” _Ever since-t_ _he end of an era._ Sherlock laughed at his own joke. He looked at the couple again. Maybe he knew them.

John would’ve laughed, thinking of Sherlock visiting the bar just to ‘get off’ but John suddenly felt like he knew why, as if he’d heard the unspoken part of the Sherlock’s response. The words hit him like stone, gutting him.

He started out with a slow chuckle, then the tears came out, like a bursting dam, making his lips tremble. His heart felt shredded to pieces like never before, not losing one ounce of its pain. His form shook as he covered his face with his palm, his very character crumbling within him. The tears were unceasing. Unmerciful.

“Well, I should be going then.” Sherlock stood up. His lower lip gave a quiver of its own. He gazed down at the shorter man and saw tears dropping to his trousers as he clenched his face in his hands. He reached out to touch John’s shoulders, but stopped. His eyes suddenly left glassy and blood rushed to his face.

He withdrew his hands and marched swiftly out of the double doors of the pub before he let a tear escape. He thought he heard something.

“Please don’t leave.” But Sherlock hadn’t turned back.

John wept, uncontrollably. He felt the pounding in his ears as his heart clenched and unclenched, like in the nightmares John had; things that kept him awake.

But this was worse. And it was too late. _Again._

John had no address, no phone number. _Nothing._

Sherlock was gone.

They weren’t meeting again, John thought.

He thought of his gun. Only his gun could free him.


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock leaves John at the bar, tragedy strikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suggest listening to Olafur Arnalds' Reminiscence while reading this, so you may have the same experience as I did while I wrote the chapter ;)

Reunion

The rain sounded like incessant gunfire on a war-ridden battlefield of smooth window glass. The sound intensified into what was, unmistakably, a thunderstorm. The pipes of buildings were gushing out water while the puddles pooled at the bottom of the street lamps and potholes, casting a rippled reflection of the clock tower, which displayed a time, a little past one.

But it was frozen.

The number of cars speeding across the roads and intersections was always the same, if not increasing, irrespective of daytime or night-time. The city never slept. The city centres and townships were always filled to the brim with the perpetual sea of people, busy with themselves, perambulating past vibrantly colourful neon displays and diverse shops, oblivious to the many crimes and murders and whatnot, that might be happening in the depths of darker alleyways of the city, until it appears in the newspapers on the nest day.

However, not all the darker things were dramatic. Sometimes all it took was being beside someone you loved and cherished as they breathed their last to bring your world crashing down in heartbreak and loss, incapable of being put into words.

These events weren’t important to the public and it would probably never make it to the public’s awareness on newspaper articles unless their existence held a degree of significance because, after all, they were common occurrences, happening all around us whether we acknowledge it or not.

But, an event such as this, so inconsequential and insignificant to the rest of the world, was enough the leave loved ones in a state of despair and helplessness and grief, unknown to only those who haven’t witnessed the power and effect of Death on the common man.

On the contrary, Sherlock just might’ve known it all too well now.

Maybe emotions really were disadvantageous.

Standing amidst the blank bleached walls that reeked off misery and gut-wrenching anticipation, he really, really hoped it was all just a nightmare. Countless times, he’d been here, such that he practically know the place like the back of his hand. He knew the morgue the best, like an old friend. It would be ‘Christmas’ every time he’d walk through those doors on a case. Sherlock never felt anything navigating through the hallways and thought little of the grief-stricken faces he’d see. But this time it was very different.

If anything, he wanted to destroy the morgue. Because, tonight, he felt lost in a state of despair. Tonight, he felt one amongst those grieving humans. Suddenly they didn’t seem like the meaningless faces seen as you passed by in a hospital.

Sherlock was reeling through the conversation on the phone he has with Mrs. Hudson about an hour ago. How her voice was quivering as she spoke in-between sobs and cries, disclosing the events which lead to this. Sherlock had never heard her cry so hard like that. It petrified him. It made him lose all faith.

His mind conjured up images of the many corpses he’d seen on his cases; dismembered limbs along with multiple organ deprived bodies. They weren’t frightening at all. It was nothing new.

Then there was one corpse which was petite in height with a hole a hole punctured at the forehead. Clean and accurate. Only capable of being done by someone with immense military precision.

The corpse had John’s face. His sandy brown hair stained in blood. The caring and kind blue eyes rolled in its sockets draped by half-open eyelids, mouth slightly agape.

Sherlock screamed and everything went black. The air was trapped in his lungs and blood ceased to flow properly through him. He shook, violently. Uncontrollably. He felt hands on him. Many hands. He heard Mycroft’s voice. “Dear God, Sherlock!” Yet he couldn’t see. And he was still screaming.

The images of the corpses were back. Yet all of them looked like John; dismembered limbs amongst the burned, charred flesh. Yet all of them had that hole on their head.

Sherlock’s throat hurt. What was happening?

He wanted to delete the sight of the ambulance and the rushing paramedics and the sickening anticipation. He wanted to smell the freshly brewed tea Mrs. Hudson made, not the repulsive smell of the antiseptic. He’d thought he’d been immune to it, coming here often. But then there were a lot of things he thought he’d become immune to.

He didn’t want to hear the wails nor the sobs within the waiting room. He wanted to hear Mrs. Hudson and John, as they happily conversed in the mornings.

What he wouldn’t do to hear John again.

To run his hand through John’s hair, just like how’d he’d imagined.

To maybe hold his hands on a cold winter morning.

Sherlock was wailing. He didn’t care about Mycroft of anybody else. Even if Sherlock wailed and cried as hard as he could, John would never hear him again.

Didn’t Sherlock know what to do?  John always thought he knew what to do.

_Don’t you worry, John. I always figure it out, don’t I?_

_Oh, John. For you, I’d do anything._

Sherlock covered his trembling lips with sweaty palms, shoulders shaking, as he squinted his tears away trying to recognize the blurry faces that peered at him.

Mycroft looked distraught with bloodshot eyes as he stood staring out into the distant nothingness ahead of him, resting a hand lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder, which went unnoticed. Was he going to regret letting John into Sherlock’s life?

The memories of their first meeting were still fresh. How fierce his loyalty had been for Sherlock, a man he’d barely known then. Unlike anything he’d seen before. It was remarkable. Extraordinary.

Why couldn’t Mycroft stop this? Why couldn’t he be a competent older brother?

He didn’t want to be pushed away but he wrapped one hand around Sherlock, knowing it wasn’t going to do any good. The brotherly instinct was unlike him. Even the beloved Redbeard hadn’t pushed Sherlock so far. How many of his broken pieces had broken again?

Why hadn’t Mycroft been able to do anything?

Mrs. Hudson broke down into her handkerchief, sniffing loudly while Greg Lestrade looked red-faced from post-crying as he stiffly leaned against the wall. All there was left was the media to find out. The camera flashes would invade the hospital premises. Then, the news would be all over the papers for everyone to see. Would they cry too?

There were distinct footsteps and rapid scuttling of feet as men in white coats appeared and approached Sherlock. Their faces were stoic, nauseatingly pale and indifferent; their brows furrowed and lips pressed into a line as he apprehensively looked from Mrs. Hudson to Mycroft, then to Sherlock. One of the doctors released a tenacious breath before speaking.

“We’ve tried but-umm-he hasn’t been responding-“

Sherlock didn’t need to hear the rest. He ran into the hallway ahead.

He crashed through the doors of the intensive care unit where they’d kept John. He froze, seeing the sight ahead of him. He stumbled towards the bed and fell on his knees beside John.

He wailed out incoherent sentences.

“Oh, John-The gun- _Why? Why?-_ John _-_ Please-John. My, John.” He cried onto the mattress.

“ _I-I'm sorry-I’m so, so sorry-John...”_ His voice broke as he gasped for breath _._

There were numerous wires, everywhere. Beeping machines.

A cardiograph displaying several tiny spikes and lines, indicating life. His John was living.

Yet not alive. He couldn’t hear, see, or speak. His eyelids would always cover the serene, loving gaze. His pleasantly gruff voice would never be heard from again.

The cardiograph was lying.

Sherlock wanted to destroy the machine and pull out the wires He wanted to rip the bandages off of John and kiss him. Would that bring him back?

John had shot himself but his life had been saved by a mere inch. He was here yet, so far away.

Had it been mercy or had it been retribution? Would John ever forgive him?

Sherlock curled his palms around John’s hands, sobbing uncontrollably. He gently placed his forehead on it and sobbed, his tears mixing with the sweat of his palms. His form an ungraceful heap on the cold, unwelcoming tiles of the hospital.

_Oh, John. My dear, John. My beautiful, John._

“I’ll be lost without my blogger.” His own voice echoed in his head. He was lost, indeed. He was broken, destroyed remnant of a human, trapped in the agony of his own mind, where only John was his savior.

But now he was no more. Who’d come to save him?

Is this what John had felt in the two years of his absence? But he’d been there every second on that very absence watching over John, protecting him. So, what went wrong? Sherlock had failed to keep the man he loved so, so much alive. To keep him smiling.

_Oh, John. My dear, John. My one and only, John. My dear, beloved, John._

Sherlock kissed the rigid, inanimate hands within his own, with quaking lips. He kissed it over and over again, entwining their fingers.

“Just one more…m-miracle, John.” A painful laugh arose from his throat and he felt as if he was about to choke on his own words. He heard feet behind him shift slowly.

“ _Coma.”_

_“Haemorrhage.”_

_“Shattered his skull beyond repair.”_

_“Blew through his left brain.”_

_“Extensive brain damage.”_

The voices murmured.

Sherlock pressed his face to their interlaced fingers and cried out, again. _No. This was a lie too._

“…A miracle…just for me.” Sherlock started, sniffing breathlessly. Was he asking too much? He let out a few laughs as he imagined the bandaged blunder of John’s face break into a goofy smile.

“Please don’t be…dead.” He finished, voice breaking.

He laid his head on the mattress, his hair messily tousled as he clutched John’s hand and held it tightly to his lips, whispering whatever he could. Occasionally, rivers of emotion would tickle his cheeks as they rolled down, but he couldn’t find energy in him to wipe them away. His limbs gave off a dull ache and his eyelids were struggling to keep itself open.

He felt as if he’d never see the light of day again, if he let his eyes close. He didn’t want to. Not without his John. So let himself be swallowed whole by the darkness. It was familiar and welcoming. Just like John.

 

* * *

 

 

“Two years _.”_

_“_ I thought…you were dead _.”_

_How does it feel, Sherlock? Should I just let you grieve? I imagine you think this was your fault._

_But…it will be if you don’t stop me._

Sherlock suddenly felt like he’d been dropped down a rabbit hole, drifting between a plethora of twists and turns of confusion.

_A miracle…Just for you._

Sherlock still had tears running down his face and his throat felt hoarse and dry like sandpaper. The ache was still traversing through his form more now than ever.

“John?” He croaked out at the blackness ahead of him.

But the voice had drowned in the cacophony of a raging thunderstorm and speedily running water. His eyes flew open to find himself turning the corners of a darkened alley which he recognized immediately as a shortcut to his previous residence: 221B Baker Street.

Where it all started.

He couldn’t fathom what exactly has taken place or how he’d walked all the way towards the place which was a temple containing his memories, soaked head to toe.

An exhausted breath escaped him and he gasped through his aching throat. He was still crying as he laughed in disbelief.

He couldn’t understand yet, he understood perfectly. It truly was a _miracle._

_…If you don’t stop me…_

Sherlock stopped midway in his path, his smile gone from his features. He started running towards the entrance of his former residence. He stumbled into the space and the acquainted sight and smells rushed through his nostrils; the distinct smell of tea and sweet biscuits along with fruity cakes. He hurried up the stairs within a split second.

“Mrs. Hudson!” He yelled, scrambling frantically around the room.

“Sherlock!” The elderly woman almost screamed from the other side of the hall. When Sherlock rushed to her, she had tears flowing down her face and fear was evident in her eyes.

“It-It’s John. He’s locked himself in that room!” She cried, attempting to twist the knob of the door which had sounds of sobbing amongst the sounds of rummaging and yells of frustration.

It was John. Distressed and hurt.

“John!” Sherlock screamed whilst pounding on the door. “If you do that to yourself, you’ll kill me too, John!”

The sobs were muffled. “No, Sherlock. All this…It was because of me. I’ve lost my chances and made so many…mistakes. I was always untrue to myself and yet-” John wept, pausing to gasp for breath. “I just can’t anymore-“

“No, John. You’re mistake-“

“No, just stop. Where did you keep it?”

“John!” Sherlock pounded hard on the door.

The loud rummaging resumed. “I just can’t do this anymore, Sherlock.” John whimpered weakly. “I won’t lose this chance-“

“John, I love you!” Sherlock shouted against the wood. His lungs left out of air as the words seemed to have been ripped out of him. The tears were rushing out like a waterfall. They were unending.

“John, please.” Sherlock pleaded. There was silence on the other side. Mrs. Hudson let out a loud sob. “Please open the door.”

John would never have to be on that bed and the paramedics wouldn’t have to come. His beloved John would be safe. With him.

The door opened slowly with John standing there momentarily before crashing down to the floor on his knees, the black gun loosely clutched in-between rough fingers. He covered his face with his other hand and cried violently, just how Sherlock had last seen him at the bar.

That was about to be the last time Sherlock would get to see him.

Sherlock dropped himself beside John before wrapping his arms around the shorter man and buried his face into the humid warmth of John’s coat collar. His tears just would not cease as he cried alongside John, cradling the man in his arms.

John was limp and weak in Sherlock’s embrace as he grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s wet coat to pull the taller man nearer. “Sh-Sherlock, I love you, too.”

“John-my, John. My beloved John. My one and only John. I’m sorry. So sorry.” Sherlock whispered. In reply, John shook his head, wheezing out breaths. “I just-“John just couldn’t find his words. He didn’t want to be freed from Sherlock. Some non-existing had broken in him.

Mrs. Hudson was crying out of joy as she gathered them into a hug. “Oh, you two.”

Sherlock gazed lovingly at his beloved, a small smile creasing the sides of his mouth. And of course, John’s tender, kind eyes smiled right back.

Sherlock always knew exactly how to bring John’s smile back. John always knew exactly how to save him in the darkest of times.

They were each other’s savior, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should start by thanking my previous readers for taking the time to express their opinions and encouraging me to add a sequel to a work I definitely wasn't expecting to continue, even though my inner perfectionist was telling me otherwise. Everyone want's our boys to be happy. I'd initially intended to release it on the 28th of March but I hadn't finished typing it up from my trusty journal. I should say that I do not know how emergencies are handled at a hospital, hence my inferences were made from movies and books I've previously read and some handy research I did using my leisure time. Also, I was suffering from my chronic Writers' Block and couldn't find the right music to suit the atmosphere, hence the immense delay. I also had my 10th-year exams and other academic matters keeping me busy. I ended up rushing a little bit and I sincerely apologize for any grammatical errors as I'm still getting things together. So, once again, I thank you for having the patience and I hope you've enjoyed it enough to leave some good criticism and feedback.
> 
> Until next time,  
> Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me all the way to the end! I do entertain constructive criticism and would love a review!  
> .3. *sends love and cookies* <3


End file.
